


Of all the Gin Joints...

by swwf17



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Aliens, F/M, First Dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 04:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10655328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swwf17/pseuds/swwf17
Summary: It’s your classic story of girl meets boy…girl fights some aliens…boy helps...





	Of all the Gin Joints...

**Author's Note:**

> *aggressively ignores season 2 canon*

“Really, though, what are the odds?”

“Of us breaking down five miles from the only biker bar populated entirely by intergalactic alien bounty hunters?” James adjusts his grip on the tire iron. “Gonna go out on a limb and say…slim to none.”

They’re surrounded—a veritable sea of seething, leather-clad beings glower at them from all sides, some flexing what could arguably be muscles, others cracking what could conceivably be knuckles. With alien physiology, it’s actually quite hard to say.

The crowd presses in a bit closer, and Kara reflexively places herself between James and their…new acquaintances. “Look I'm—I’m really sorry about the bikes,” she attempts— _yet again_ —to take the diplomatic route. “I’m sure if we just all…settle down and discuss this like rational adults—”

One of the aliens shakes his head. And then the other head in quick succession.

“We’re not interested in _talking_ …” they two heads growl in unsettling unison. There’s a rumble of agreement. A tense pause. And then…

“GET ‘EM!”

“James, _duck!_ ”

James does duck, and Kara does not, opting instead to use the charging horde’s speed and strength against them. An irate Karnan essentially becomes a makeshift battering ram, sending three Hexapuses sprawling.

“The short one can fight!”

“My leg!”

“My thorax!”

James remains in a defensive crouch, keeping an eye on the undulating mass of aliens that Kara seems to be handling…about as well as an angry mob of aliens can be handled. She’s grappling with a tall Dryad who has somehow managed to shape the upper portion of his boulder-like skull into something resembling a mohawk. She therefore does not see the approaching…the approaching…uh…

James gives up. He has no clue what the heck the orange blobby thing in the leather vest is supposed to be.  
He springs to his feet, raises the tire iron high over head, and plunges it into the gelatinous form of the would-be attacker.

The blob stares at James.

James stares at the blob.

Both stare at the half-submerged tire iron protruding from the blob’s abdomen.

And Kara throws the Dryad through the bar. Which is apparently the last straw.

“ENOUGH,” a voice bellows, loud over the residual sounds of shot glasses rolling from the shelves and shattering on the Dryad’s expertly sculpted hairdo. (James will later wonder if it can really be called 'hair’ if, in fact, there is no hair to be had.) “Didn’t anyone ever tell you _numbskulls_ not to go toe to toe with a freakin’ _Kryptonian_?”

James wipes the goop from his hands and hurries to stand beside Kara, who frowns and shifts her weight from foot to foot, clearly agitated. She’s not thrilled with this turn of events, no doubt having to do with the 'Kryptonian’ aspect of her identity being thrown around while she’s in jeans and a t-shirt. (Though, James is pretty sure their cover was blown the minute she drop-kicked that Thanagarian.)

Both search the crowd, looking for the source of the shout. An altogether unnecessary gesture, because the single largest humanoid James has ever seen unfolds itself, seeming to spill out from the small booth of the far side of the bar that had just barely been supporting them.

As it walks towards them, the crowd parts, and the floorboards protest loudly.  
Kara’s wearing a brave face, but her left hand drifts back to grasp his own, and he wonders if she can hear his knees knocking together.

Finally, the mass of grey flesh and slightly-darker-grey leather stops mere feet in front of them. James has to tilt his head back in order to get a good look at its face, but even then, its beady red eyes are obscured by a tangle of facial hair that can only be described as 'formidable.’ “You trashed our bikes, and our bar,” the alien spits out. James isn’t sure if he actually hears the words, or _smells_ them.

(It must be the latter for Kara, because it looks like she’s struggling to remain upright.)

“W-well to be fair,” she recovers like a champ. You can’t hardly even see the tears in her eyes. “The bar wasn’t _entirely_ our fault. That was more of a…team effort.”

The large alien turns its massive head to regard the remaining bikers. They all duck their own heads, and other comparable body parts, shame-faced.

“Buncha _idiots_ , I swear,” James is so very, very grateful that the words are spoken _away_ from their faces this time. “Okay, so the bar’s not your fault,” he turns back to them (much to James’ dismay). “Wacha gunna do about our _bikes_ , huh?”  
Kara blinks, and James gives her hand a squeeze. She looks over her shoulder back at him.

_Any ideas?_ Is the silent implication of her questioning gaze.

He shakes his head. _None._

She turns back to the alien.

“Well,” she starts, and fiddles with her glasses, stalling for time. All of the bikers look to her, expectant. “I uh…I’m not exactly in a position to—I can’t really cover the damages. Monetarily speaking.”

_Bad idea, bad idea_ , James’ desperate grip on Kara’s hand is unnecessary, she can see the angry glares just as easily as he can. The entire group looks ready to pounce again, as does their very large friend.

Kara holds up her right hand in a placating gesture. “But!” she rushes to say. “I can…help you fix them?”

The grumbling abruptly stops, replaced with stunned silence.

“What?”

James is just as surprised. “What?”

“I mean. We can at least try, right?” Kara sounds more confident now, the idea no longer an amorphous notion, but rather a solid plan that takes concrete shape in her mind. The aliens still stare in outright confusion, so Kara shrugs and nudges her glasses down the bridge of her nose, a carefully-aimed blast of heat vision leaving an obvious mark in the metal siding on the wall.

“Pretty decent at welding,” she says with an embarrassed grin. James grins as well, and quickly jumps in.

“And I, uh. I’ve got a tire iron.” He frowns. “Well. _Had._ ”

There’s a wet slurping sound behind them, and both turn to see the large orange blob, one tendril of goop extended, tire iron in…hand? Tentacle? Hand-like-appendage?

“…Thanks.”

“ _Glorp._ ”

The Very Large Alien waves the orange blob off, the beard portion of its face scrunching up to meet the eye portion.

“So, lemme get this straight.” It points a meaty finger at James and Kara. “ _You_ , a Kryptonian, are gonna help _me_ , a Czarnian?”

“…Yes?” _Why wouldn’t I?_ James can read the words in the confused tilt of her head.

Something that sounds an awful lot like thunder follows, and it takes the two of them a minute to realize the alien is _laughing._

“HA! Your stuffy cousin would’ve just given us a lecture and flown off. But you? You’re alright, kid.” The alien slaps Kara on the back and Kara does _not_ fall over, but she does visibly wince. James does too, for that matter; it looks like it _hurts_. “I’m Lobo, by the way.”

“Lobo?” James echoes. “As in…The Main Man?”

“Yeah…” Lobo does that thing again where his beard moves up to meet his eyes—James realizes that this means he’s squinting. “…Do I know you?”

“James Olsen,” James extends a hand. “We…have a mutual acquaintance…”

Lobo doesn’t seem to place his name at first—which might be a good thing—but then recognition dawns. Two clumps of hair that might be eyebrows raise, and then furrow menacingly.

“Mmmmm.”

Gone is the jovial atmosphere. James regrets having spoken at all. But Lobo turns to Kara, and his mane of hair moves in such a way as to suggest the raising of eyebrows once again. “You gonna vouch for this human?”

“Absolutely,” Kara says without hesitation. And then, with a small, affectionate smile, adds, “he’s one of the best humans I know.”

James warms at the praise, and ducks his head to whisper a quiet, bashful 'thanks,’ knowing that she’ll be able to hear him.

“Well, if you say so,” Lobo grumbles, either oblivious to the exchange, or simply choosing to ignore it. He sniffs loudly, and then lets out a thunderclap of laughter. “Well ALRIGHT then!” he booms. “Bob, bend the jukebox back into shape, and Larry, mop up that Jim Beam and see if you can’t get it back in a bottle.” He looks back at James and Kara. “You two want a drink? Wait. You _can_ drink, right kid?”

Kara rolls her eyes. Even at an alien biker bar, where some of the patrons don’t even have discernible facial features, she manages to get carded.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna pass,” she declines the offer politely, as the two watch the orange blob—Larry, apparently—absorb the spilled alcohol into his—leg? Arm?–and expel it into one of the remaining, unbroken glasses.

“None for me, thanks, I’m driving,” James says when Larry extends the glass in his direction. Larry shrugs, as does Lobo.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “But if you change your mind, lemme know. Drinks are on me.” With that, he turns to bark at the crowd. “Bob! What did I say about the jukebox? If I don’t hear 'Piano Man’ soon _someone_ is gonna be cleaning out the johns!”

Lobo wanders off, leaving Kara and James on their own. Mostly. As they’re still essentially surrounded by alien bounty hunters—but at least now, said bounty hunters seem more concerned with fixing the pool table and bar stools, as opposed to tearing them limb from limb.

There’s a beat of (relative) silence and then the two of them burst into relieved (and slightly hysterical) laughter.

“That,” James says, once he catches his breath, “was amazing. _You_ were amazing.”

Kara blushes.

“Not really,” she says. “All I managed to do was wreck the place.”

“Kara, you’ve got _Lobo_ offering you free drinks. Scariest bounty hunter in the galaxy, basically picking up your tab.”  
Both of them look at the alien in question, who is busy launching into the second verse of “Route 66,” accompanied by at least five other bikers.

They regard the surreal scene for a moment before Kara says, “You know his name roughly translates, 'one who devours your entrails and thoroughly enjoys it.'”

James blinks.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“You guys like Journey?!” Lobo yells.

“Um.” Kara says.

“Sure?” James replies.

“Then get over here!” Lobo thumps Bob on the shoulder, who thumps the jukebox, which sputters a moment before “Don’t Stop Believing” begins to play.

James looks at Kara.

Kara looks at James.

“You know the words?”

“ _Pssshh._ Who _doesn’t_?”

And so, as the rousing chorus plays, and over a dozen voices join in, the two decide that, as far as first dates go, it’s really _weird_ , sure, but definitely not the worst.


End file.
